


So I Know You're Mine

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Don't say I didn't warn you, Established Relationship, Knotting, M/M, Marking, PWP, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Scenting, this is just a teeny bit dirty guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill.  Stiles has such fair skin.  Derek loves the way his marks show up so easily.  Stiles loves it, too.  Thank god lacrosse season is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So I Know You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> These PWP prompts are way too much fun. WAY TOO MUCH. You can follow me on Tumblr if you'd like (hungrylikethewolfie there, which believe it or not had nothing to do with this fandom, go figure) as well. Odds of me begging for more prompts there eventually are fairly good.

 

“Derek!”

 

Stiles bursts in through the front door, taking a moment to shake his head because Derek's _still_ not locking it, and really, they've _had_ this conversation. A moment's all he can spare, however, before he's tearing his way through the house, running from room to room like a madman. It's not until he reaches the kitchen that he hears the music filtering down from upstairs, and yeah, of course Derek is up there, Stiles _knows_ he's been renovating the other bedrooms recently so the rest of the pack can have somewhere comfortable to sleep; it's just that details like that tend to get lost when he's excited. He should work on that, he thinks absently, as he hauls ass back to the front of the house and takes the stairs two at a time.

 

“ _Derek_!” He pitches his voice to be heard over the heavy bass thumping of the music his boyfriend has playing. “Hey, sourwolf!”

 

When Stiles reaches the top of the stairs, Derek's already standing in the doorway of the bedroom next to his, scowling at the nickname. It's his keeping-up-appearances-scowl, though, not his actually-going-to-rip-your-throat-out scowl, Stiles knows the difference by now, so he just stops several feet away, grinning as Derek wipes at his hands with a paint-streaked cloth. He can see the exact second when the scent of him hits Derek's nose over the paint fumes, knows from the way he goes completely, eerily still that Derek knows exactly what's going on with him.

 

“Hey.” Stiles is jittering, practically vibrating with energy, and he knows the grin on his face has stretched to idiotic proportions, but he can't bring himself to even try to care. “Get a lot of work done?”

 

Derek just grunts; Stiles can see his nostrils flare as he seeks out more of Stiles's scent. “I thought you had a game.”

 

“Did. Finished.” Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet, licks his lips. “Last game of the season.”

 

“No team celebration after?” Derek's voice still sounds calm enough, but his eyes are flashing red as he stalks forward to close the space between them.

 

“We lost.” Stiles moves to meet him, still grinning.

 

“Good,” Derek growls, and Stiles would take offense, but he's a little distracted by being suddenly trapped between his boyfriend's body and the wall, and Derek's mouth is at his neck and oh, _oh yes, finally_.

 

“Derek.” That's a whine in Stiles's throat now, and he can't help but feel a little bit embarrassed. “C'mon.” He squirms, but although Derek's hands tighten around his shoulders, his mouth is still frustratingly gentle on Stiles's skin. “ _C'mon_.”

 

“Shut up.” Derek leans back enough to strip Stiles's shirts off of him before leaning back in and burying his nose in the hollow of Stiles's throat, breathing deep. “You didn't shower.”

 

“No.” Stiles has gone from half-mast to fully hard in the span of about thirty seconds, and his hands are scrabbling at Derek's shoulders, trying to get to skin. “Didn't want to take the time. Already been too long. Derek, _please_.”

 

A growl rips its way out of Derek's chest at that, and the next thing Stiles knows his back is hitting the floor, his breath knocked out of him as his boyfriend's fever-warm body presses down on him. Derek's mouth moves down to Stiles's chest, hovering above his heart.

 

“I fucking hate lacrosse season,” Derek breathes, and bites down.

 

Stiles arches up into it, into the sharp, painful burn; he thinks Derek might have actually drawn a little blood. He hopes he has, hopes for it even as he feels the bruise already beginning to spread beneath his skin. It's been two months since Derek has marked him, two months of being gentle and careful and god, Stiles has  _missed_ this. He wants something that goes deep; something that will last. Something he'll be able to press his fingers against in the middle of the night and let the sting remind him just how much Derek wants him.

 

“I don't like it,” Derek is muttering against his ribs, teeth scraping against delicate skin while his claws scratch long welts over Stiles's sides. “I don't like them seeing you without your clothes, without my marks on you.”

 

“I know.” Stiles lets his fingers tangle in Derek's hair, urging him on. “But hey, it's not like Scott or Isaac would let them do anything. Or Jackson, even.” He moans as Derek bites down hard again. “It's not like _I'd_ let them, even if they were interested. Which hey, no one is, so there's really nothing to wo-orry about, oh god, _yes_.”

 

Derek has moved back up to his neck, nipping and licking at fragile, sensitive skin as his hands set to work on Stiles's jeans. Stiles has managed to hike up Derek's shirt, soft paint-spattered cotton racked up under his arms so that Stiles can run his hands over hot, bare skin.

 

“You can't honestly be that naïve,” Derek pauses to say. “I know you have a mirror at home, I know you've seen your own mouth. There's not a single boy on that team with as much as a passing homosexual thought in his head who hasn't thought about putting it to use.”

 

“You're ridiculous.” Stiles lifts his hips so that Derek can tug his jeans down. “You do _know_ you're ridiculous, right? Damn it, let me take your freakin' shirt off already, grabby.”

 

Derek just growls again, but he leans up enough for Stiles to wrestle the thing off. That's all he gets, though, before Derek ducks back down and finally puts his mouth on Stiles's, no gentler in his kiss than he has been since he started. Stiles feels his lips start to swell immediately beneath the scrape of stubble and the sting of sharp, rough bites as Derek feeds at his mouth. It's good—as good as the press of a warm, firm chest against his, pressure on the marks that Derek's left making him dizzy with pain-edged pleasure.

 

Stiles makes a desperate, pleading sound when Derek pulls away, and he's not proud of it, all right, but he's been been thinking about this all week,  _craving_ it, and damn it he just needs Derek's mouth back on him he needs it  _now_ . Derek's hauling him to his feet, and that's okay, that's fine because he's also kissing him again. He's lifting Stiles up, carrying him down the hall, and that's  _more_ than fine, that's  _excellent_ , being carted off to bed like this. Stiles likes Derek's bed; he likes the size of it, and he likes the softness of the sheets, and most of all he likes the things that Derek does to him when he's in it. He knows that Derek likes it too—likes seeing Stiles spread out there for him, in the heart of his territory, marked by his scent and mouth and hands and begging him for more.

 

Which is why he's surprised, to say the least, when Derek carries him into the bathroom instead.

 

“Change your mind about that shower?” Stiles asks, shivering when Derek nips sharply at his ear.

 

“Now who's being ridiculous?” Derek's mouth finds his again as he lowers Stiles back to his feet.

 

“Um, yeah, the answer to that is always gonna be _you_ ,” Stiles says when he can breathe again. He threads his hands into Derek's hair again just to enjoy the feel of the strands between his fingers. “You're king of all ridiculousness. Emperor for life. Alpha of the Northwestern Ridiculous Werewolves Pack Alliance. You're—”

 

“Oh my _god_ , Stiles, do you _ever_ shut up?” 

 

It's a rhetorical question, obviously, because Derek is probably second only to Scott in firsthand knowledge that no, no he doesn't. And since that's the case, it's equally obvious that Stiles isn't going to let the nature of the question stop him from answering.

 

“Not as a general rule,” he grins. “But why don't you try to make me?”

 

Derek's mouth stretches into a toothy smile. “Thought you'd never ask.”

 

Within seconds Stiles finds himself spun around, hands moved forward to brace against the back of the sink. He can feel Derek plastered all along his back, and when he looks up he sees their reflection, sees his own fair skin covered in livid red marks already starting to purple at the edges. Derek is mouthing at his shoulder, nipping and sucking a new bruise into being, and when his eyes open to meet Stiles's in the mirror, Stiles very nearly comes right then and there.

 

“Look at yourself,” Derek rumbles. “This is how you should always look. Marked so that even your teammate's worthless human senses can tell that you're mine.”

 

“Hey, if Coach hadn't started making noises about talking to the guidance counselor and abusive relationships, I'd have been just fine with that.” Stiles doesn't even really know what he's saying; his mouth is on autopilot as he tries to grind back against Derek's hips and the really promising erection he can feel pressed against his ass. “Having people know that I'm yours . . . that you want me so much . . . it makes me proud. Oh god, that sounded so much less stupid in my head, just put me out of my misery and fuck me already, _please_.”

 

He can feel Derek's low, rumbling growl vibrating against his spine, but when Derek whispers in his ear the words are, “Not yet,” and Stiles chokes back a sob of frustration.

 

“Please, _please_ , do you want me to beg? Come on, I'm _begging_ , I need—oh. Ohhhhhhhhh, fuck. Um.” 

 

He can practically feel his brain short-circuiting, cool air hitting his back as Derek sinks to his knees behind him. That mouth, that wonderful, evil mouth is at the small of Stiles's back now, making nerve endings sizzle and spark, licking and biting lower as Derek's hands slowly peel away his underwear until he's completely bare. Stiles's hands tighten around the edges of the sink. They've only done this once before, and it had been so _weird_ , and so intense, and Stiles hadn't even been entirely sure that he liked it but he'd come like a god-damned freight train.

 

By the time Derek's hands spread him open Stiles is sure that he won't be able to sit without wincing for a week at least, not with his ass peppered with bruises the way he knows it must be now. Then he feels Derek's tongue swipe over him, and the shudder that wracks his body makes him glad for the hands holding him in place—smashing his junk into the front of the sink would probably be a pretty instant mood-killer. And now that he's started, Derek isn't easing his way into things. He's lapping at Stiles's hole like it's the best thing he's ever tasted, sucking at the sensitive skin and moaning in a way that has Stiles's cock dripping. When he finally works his tongue inside, Stiles lets his forehead fall against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass as he desperately tries to hold himself together. He thinks he's making noise, some sort of needy, high-pitched babbling whine, but he can't be sure. Derek's mouth on him sounds impossibly loud, wet and sloppy and obscene, and if Stiles could move his hand from his death-grip on the sink without falling and smashing his face in, he's pretty sure he'd be coming as soon as he so much as touched his dick.

 

Derek's fingers have joined his tongue now, slick with more than just spit, and Stiles is trying his best to rock back into the stretch. The part of his mind that will probably only shut up when he's dead and cold in his grave is still babbling, because Derek is still making those hungry, greedy noises that are vibrating through Stiles's body, and Stiles knows from ill-advised experience that the lube they usually use tastes  _awful_ , so unless this is flavored lube oh shit Derek bought flavored lube Stiles might legitimately keel over and die  _oh god_ . And he thinks maybe he says some—or all—of that out loud, because there's a growling chuckle against his skin before Derek stands up again.

 

There's hot breath against the back of his neck, and the not-so-gentle scrape of teeth, and then Derek is slowly pushing inside, splitting Stiles open and god, it feels big,  _too_ big even though Stiles knows it's not, knows he's done this before. He bears down, and breathes deep, and then Derek is inside of him, the burn just short of too much as he makes room for himself, and Stiles wishes it could go on forever. He shoves his hips back as best he can, trying to get more, trying to get everything. Even when Derek is in as far as he can go, groin pressed against the curve of Stiles's ass, shifting so that their balls rub together, he still wants more, keeps trying to move back, to get him deeper. Then teeth sink into the nape of his neck, stilling him as much as Derek's low, warning growl.

 

“ _Look_ ,” he hears rasped in his ear a moment later, and he lifts his head again at the command. His eyes meet Derek's in the mirror, and they're so blown there's only a rim of red around pools of black. “Watch,” Derek tells him, an instant before he finally begins to move.

 

It's not easy, or tender, or gentle. It's rough and hard, fast and exactly what Stiles has been craving. It's seeing himself, mouth red and swollen and hanging open, skin flushed and scratched and bruised. It's feeling large hands hold his hips in place as Derek pounds relentlessly into him; hearing the panting and deep, animal grunts as he ruts, chasing his own pleasure now. It's sliding his feet farther apart, and thrusting back to meet him, and begging, begging, please oh  _please_ he  _needs_ .

 

When Derek finally moves a hand to wrap around Stiles's cock, it turns out he was right—he lasts less than two full strokes before he's coming, the sound of his shout echoing off of the walls as he spills thick, messy spurts over Derek's fingers. He barely has enough strength to hold himself up afterwards, but he does his best, trying to regulate his breathing to something other than desperate, just-ran-a-marathon gasps, as Derek just keeps fucking him. Then teeth are sinking into his shoulder, growls bubbling out of Derek's throat; Stiles knows he's close, knows it even before his thrusts get short and erratic, and he moans when Derek finally stills and empties himself inside of Stiles's body in a hot, wet rush.

 

“Ohhh, no.” Stiles feels Derek's cock swelling, and he finally manages to unclench his fingers, slumping against the mirror again as he reaches back to slap weakly at Derek's hip. “No, no, goddamn it, you're not—stoppit, I'm not doing this on the fucking bathroom floor, you freaking—argh!” Derek is ignoring Stiles's protests, pressing deeper, making sure his knot is firmly inside of Stiles's body before he relaxes. “You _asshole_ ,” Stiles grumbles, but he can't work up a proper amount of irritation when he feels this warm and sated.

 

“Hmmm,” is all Derek says, lipping softly at the back of Stiles's neck and gathering him close. He bears them down to the floor together, nuzzling whatever skin he can reach while Stiles tries not to wince at the way the movement makes the knot shift inside of him. “Sorry.”

 

“Are not.” Stiles sighs and shifts closer. “You need to get better rugs in here if this is going to be, like, a _thing_.”

 

“Fair enough.” Derek's sigh ghosts over the back of Stiles's head, making him shiver again. “Missed this.”

 

“Me too,” Stiles admits, and against his better judgement he reaches down for one of Derek's hands, bringing it up to press against the bruise blooming over his heart. “You're still an asshole, though.”

 

“Mmm. And you're _mine_.”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles laughs, settling in for the duration. “You bet your ass I am.”

 

 


End file.
